Between
by bittergrapes
Summary: A serial killer forces John and Sherlock to contemplate transphobia and their relationship. ftm!Sherlock/bisexual!John. Set after 'Beneath', 'Before', and 'Beside' in my Translock AU universe. Content warning for graphic descriptions of murder.
1. Chapter 1

**Content Warnings for Story: Transphobia, graphic descriptions of the murder of a trans*man**

Sherlock's dreaming mind was slowly infiltrated by familiar morning sounds: John making breakfast, humming softly to himself; the asthmatic whistle of the clanky copper tea kettle that his flatmate refused to replace; the soothing lilt of the smooth jazz radio channel that the doctor preferred. It was Sunday, judging from the faint sizzling noise and the strong, tantalizing smell of pork pervading their cozy apartment. John only cooked bacon for breakfast on Sundays: it was his little way of reminding them both that they had survived yet another week of crime and terror and constant exhilaration without their hearts (or legs) giving out.

Another noise interrupted the rest, causing John to turn off the radio and grab the tea kettle from the stove. Sherlock fully awoke to the sound of John's voice murmuring into the phone. He could tell from the anxious tone of his voice that it was Lestrade, calling them away from their Sunday breakfast ritual to investigate some horrific tragedy for him, offering a delicious puzzle for Sherlock to tease apart. The consulting detective felt a smile brush across his lips, and then he was bounding downstairs, grabbing his dressing gown from its ornate peg on his bedroom door. Bacon could wait indefinitely if need be. Adrenaline called in the form of a murder, and Sherlock could never refuse its pleading.

"Yes, he's sleeping … no, he really does actually do that sometimes. I know, it surprised me too. I don't really think this will be good case for him. No, I haven't asked him about it, I just … no, everything's fine, it's just … "

"Just what?" John turned around, startled at the sound of his partner's raspy morning baritone. "A case is a case. I only refuse if they're boring."

"I know, Sherlock, but this one, I really don't think you'll want." John's eyes were pleading, begging Sherlock to drop the subject and let him refuse. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as the tall detective strode toward him, plucking the phone from his fingers with a smirk. Defeated, the Army doctor slumped his shoulders and returned to the kitchen.

"I want all of them, if they're interesting enough. Lestrade? … Yes. Yes I will." Ending the conversation with a jab of his thumb, Sherlock carelessly lobbed the phone at the couch and strode quickly into the kitchen, finding his partner busily portioning sugar into their cups: John's a plain white mug emblazoned with the Royal Army Medical Corps logo, Sherlock's a chipped junk-shop find emblazoned with a cheesy advertisement for Blackpool, stained from years of strong tea. He wrapped his arms around the broad shoulders of his doctor, feeling the muscles involuntarily tense and relax out of habit.

"John."

"I didn't think you would want it."

"_John._"

"It's too close to home. It will upset you." John's voice quavered slightly, and he brushed off Sherlock's marauding hands, turning to hand the curly-haired detective his cup of tea.

"I will decide that for myself." Sherlock was decidedly firm, his glacial eyes fixing his partner's grey ones with a fixed, determined glare. "You do not get to pick and choose what assignments I take, regardless of the nature of our romantic arrangement."

"Our _relationship._"

"Yes, that. Business is business, and pleasure is pleasure. Do try to keep them separate, Watson," the detective spat.

John's throat dried, and he swallowed nervously. Sherlock only referred to him by his last name when he was exceptionally frustrated with him; it was a blessedly rare occasion, but enough to give him an anxious Pavlovian reaction to his last name.

"We are absolute equals in regards to our romantic relationship, John. This has always been the case, and will remain the case for as long as we choose it. But professionally, you have no jurisdiction over the cases I undertake. You are my_assistant_, John: my colleague, yes, but not my keeper. And you do not get to turn down cases for me."

"Yes, Sherlock. I just thought –"

"I don't care what you thought," Sherlock replied calmly, all pique drained from his demeanor. "Obviously you thought wrong. And you will not make that error in the future."

"Yes."

Satisfied with the response, Holmes took a drag of his tea, nodding appreciatively. "You didn't tell him?"

"What? No, of course not."

"Good. He has known me for five years without suspicion. Regardless of the specifics of this case, I would like that ignorance to continue."

"I won't say anything to him, I promise."

Sherlock seemed to disregard his statement, pacing frenetically about the sitting room. The mug in his hand sloshed occasionally, and with a practiced, resigned sigh, John grabbed a tea towel and scooted it about with his foot, following the lanky detective as he strode energetically to and fro.

"This was a passion killing. It's a simple hate crime – that much is obvious simply by the target and the description of the wounds. But because of the victim's 'stealth' status, it's a calculated slaying. A serial killer. Ooh, I love those."

"Just waiting for a mistake, then?" John asked wearily, handing Sherlock his coat and scarf and catching the mug before it fell from his hands.

"Oh no. I think the waiting is done, but I want to be absolutely sure."

"What color are we looking for this time?" the doctor demurred, locking elbows with his partner.

"Not a color this time, no. A person."

"Who?"

Sherlock turned to John, his eyes bright as he kissed him. "_You._"

The look of surprise on John's face must have been visible from space. "What?"

"Come along, no time to explain now. Taxi!"


	2. Chapter 2

Their cab stopped in front of an abandoned bottling factory on the outskirts of London, standing black and ominous against the overcast morning sky. Assorted police officers were standing about, ignoring the doctor and detective as they strode in. Most of the regular officers had become so immune to their presence that there was not even a glance spared between them when the pair appeared; it had just become another facet of their daily lives, not worth the attention.

Inside the cavernous front room, bobbies scurried about, most staying clear of the circle of floodlights illuminating a small, thin figure lying prone on the ground, covered in blood. It was difficult to see outside of the ring of lights, their glare causing John to wince, but he could make out Lestrade in a corner, conversing intently with Sally Donovan. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least the officer wouldn't be calling his boyfriend a "freak" when her attention was captured by the Detective Inspector.

Anderson was waiting for them at the entrance, his lip curled angrily as Sherlock's tall, black figure strode toward him. "If you tamper with any evidence, I'm telling Lestrade to bar you from any future crime scenes."

"Ooh, telling Lestrade on me? What a _potent_ threat, Anderson. I have plenty of things I could tell Lestrade as well."

"Like what?" The medical officer glared reprovingly at the detective, who merely brushed him aside.

"Two words, Anderson: squad car. One more: _Sally's_ squad car. Need another?" Sherlock wore a frightening grin, his teeth gleaming ominously in the semi-darkness. Anderson blanched, falling silent.

John merely rolled his eyes, moving past both of them toward the body. "Children, stop bickering."

Sherlock immediately abandoned his squabble with the Yarder, his coat snapping briskly in the cold, drizzly wind of a London Sunday morning. Taking up stance beside John, he merely watched as his partner meticulously examined the body, but his eyes danced across the prone, naked figure, picking up thousands of clues with each twitch of his optic nerve. Pure, unfiltered data poured into his mind, neatly arranging itself chronologically, categorically, and by order of importance; his fingers were practically writhing, impatiently awaiting their chance to add to the flow of clues.

John drew himself up, stepping away from the body and crossing his arms, squinting.

"Well, John? What have you determined?"

"Victim was in his mid 30's, female-to-male transsexual, had undergone metoidioplasty as well as a bilateral mastectomy. Judging from the healing of the scars, the mastectomy had been about 15 years ago, while the metoidioplasty had been relatively recent – about five years. He was married judging by the ring on his finger; that means that either his partner is a female, his partner is male and he never had his gender marker legally changed – unlikely, from the length of treatment and the metoidioplasty – or his partner is male and they had a civil partnership, but chose to wear wedding rings. So no clues on that. Wallet and ID were gone or we would know more info already, according to Lestrade. They're going to run dental records."

"Good," Sherlock replied absently, already mulling over the info he'd determined.

". . . Should I go on?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Victim has been dead less than 24 hours. This was definitely a hate crime as you determined. The attacker has probably done this before judging by the surgical precision of the wounds and the fact that he went for the groin and chest first, then the killing blow. He wanted to incur as much pain as possible in the genital and the chest area. There are bruises on the victim's throat and upper chest, which shows that the attacker held him down while performing at least part of the damage. It was almost like he was attempting to undo the sex reassignment surgeries because he cut off the penis, then plunged his knife into the wound and twisted. As you can see he reopened the incisions from the mastectomy, took the victim's shirt and underwear and inserted them underneath the wound." John's voice began to lose its authoritative nature, and his skin was tinged a slight green. Sherlock noticed immediately, resting his hand on his partner's arm. 

"You don't have to go on if it upsets you," he said softly.

"No, I –"

"What are we looking at here, Sherlock?" Lestrade's booming voice cut through their conversation, and the Detective Inspector strode up, a clipboard in his hand. "Ghastly, that," he offered, almost companionably, and the consulting detective nodded. John stepped back, his lips pursed, and looked away from the crime scene, fighting to push back the bile rising in his throat.

"John has been performing a physical examination of the body for me. This was a hate killing, a transphobic hate crime against the victim, but not him personally. The killer tracks his victims through the NHS, which suggests that he has a job in the healthcare system. Judging by the handspan of the bruises on the victim's throat, we are looking for a large, cisgendered man. I would put him at about 6'4", massive build and a very strong grip." Sherlock knelt down, running his gloved finger carefully along the pectoral cuts. "This was made with an autopsy blade: disposable 8" Sheffield disposable steel dissection knife, distributed by Mopec Europe; they have these at Bart's, I've used them before," he offered by way of explanation for his knowledge. Lestrade nodded.

"The fact that he used a disposable dissection knife again suggests that he works at a hospital or a forensics lab: he has access both to the knives – and these are not cheap – so that he could smuggle them out as well as access to the sharps bin so that he could throw away the knife without suspicion. There would be no questions about it, why would they be concerned? The wear on the blade would have been identical to that of an autopsy. The missing knife could be explained as he accidentally used one to saw through a bone, it snapped and he had to replace it. He may have even snapped another disposable knife to further add to the ruse. Forensic pathologists, especially those on call, often work irregular hours, which would mean there would be few witnesses when he returned to his place of work and, again, little suspicion aroused by his departure and return.

"The cuts are extremely clean and done with admirable precision. The blade, therefore, is quite sharp, brand new, and the man who wields it has at least 20 years of experience in performing autopsies. However, this is not his native knife, as shown by the hesitation at the onset of the lines. A man who has worked that long in forensics would have earned a preference for certain types of knives, gained a native intuition on to how to use them: he wouldn't have faltered in the beginning of a cut if this was his typical instrument. This suggests that he has a personal set of tools that he uses; perhaps he is a coroner with a sterilizing machine? At points there is a little scattering of the line and of the blood spatter. This is where the victim moved and disrupted the murderer's concentration – remember, he's used to working on inert bodies and the breathing and twitching of a live victim is erratic, difficult to account for. However, the way that the line quickly recovers shows that he has performed a similar murder to this before."

Lestrade nodded, deep in thought, while John reached for Sherlock's hand. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."

The consulting detective offered a wry grin. "I pride myself on my work."

"Understatement of the century," Lestrade rumbled. "So we're looking for a very experienced forensic pathologist or undertaker with a vendetta against transgendered people?"

"Yes, in short. But remember he has to have access to the NHS database in some way. This means that he either has friends who work directly with the system, or he works in a smaller hospital with less stringent security policies. He might work with the system himself. A vendetta like this generally is based in personal history or trauma. This is a dedicated serial killer – this man," Sherlock gestured to the corpse before them, "had been living as a man for at least ten years. The killer had to perform a meticulous search for him, making a highly illegal search for his personal information in the healthcare database and then tracking him down to his home."

At Lestrade's raised eyebrow at the last sentence, Sherlock sighed, irritated by the detective inspector's clear lack of understanding. "Yes, by the way, he was brought here. Look at the small stand of cloth caught between his teeth – he was gagged, but not bound. This leads me to conclude that he was drugged with a muscle relaxant in his home before being brought here. The gag was purely for psychological torture: even when people are cognizant of the fact that they can't speak, a gag reinforces this and causes more tension. It appears that the relaxant had worn off shortly before he performed the pectoral damage, but not before the genital torture."

"Good, Sherlock. Thanks. Is there anything else, or should we start looking for the killer?"

Sherlock almost replied, explaining that he thought he knew the identity of their target, but John interrupted him.

"I know something."

They both turned to look at him, but the doctor had his eyes solely on Sherlock, his jaw set.

"There is _no way in Hell_ I am letting you go to Bart's, or any other hospital, before we find this psycho. Understood?"

"But, John-"

"_Understood?_"

Sherlock ran his eyes across John's face, as if examining his intent, and then he nodded softly. "Yes, John. Of course."


	3. Chapter 3

The ride home was quiet – deathly so. All that echoed in the cab were the distant, muffled sounds of London living around them: the screech of tires and the accompanying angry shouts, the peals of bells, the happy squalling of children and tourists alike as the innocent and naïve were taken in by the charms of the ancient city.

Sherlock was looking out the window, deep in thought. John could practically see the intense calculations going on beside him, but he declined to comment. The detective's moods could be mercurial, as transient and fleeting as the weather of the city they lived in, but infinitely more emotionally devastating when they took a sour turn. It was best to leave him to wander through the vast and lonely impasses of his headspace in peace; John had learned the hard way about interrupting Sherlock's thoughts.

As the cabbie's bumper brushed against the kerb at 221B, Sherlock startled out of his meditative lull, looking around him wildly. John rested a hand against his partner's thigh, managing not to flinch when the detective shot him a particularly loathsome and bewildered glare.

"Easy there. It's just me. We're home."

"I can see that," Sherlock replied sharply, gathering his coat around him and striding to their door. John remained silent, merely following his partner up the stairs.

"Lost in thought, then?"

"I've figured out the most likely motive as well as the identity of the killer, but I need more evidence on the other murders," Sherlock mumbled, heading toward the kitchen and banging the kettle down onto the burner with a little more force than necessary.

John smiled tightly. "But you don't want to go follow the lead because it means you have to talk to Mycroft."

The curly-haired Holmes whirled on his feet, a look of genuine surprise and appreciation on his features. "Excellent deduction, John. You're getting quite good at this."

His earnest tone stirred John's blood a little, and the doctor fought back the arousal swilling in his stomach. _Only with Sherlock could a compliment become a source of sexual frustration_, he lamented, amused. Then he remembered that he had implicitly become the Holmes brother liaison with the signing of the rent lease, and he blanched.

Sherlock, catching the microexpression, smiled triumphantly. "You won't refuse, and you know it."

"I can't refuse you, and you know it."

"Knowing something to be a fact doesn't diminish the satisfaction of its veracity being proven time and time again."

"You say things like that just to sexually frustrate me, don't you?"

"Of course. No sex during investigations – if I don't eat, I won't fuck either. All the endorphins cloud my head," Sherlock purred, waltzing over to run his hand down John's arm and press his lips against the doctor's racing pulse point. "And do try to remember that we are working on a murder investigation."

John laughed, batting Sherlock away. "Only you can turn a sentence like that into innuendo without trying."

"It's one of my more amateur talents. I'm working on it. You give me ample opportunities to do so."

John was suddenly struck by the realization that the murder victim had also had moments like these – innocent seductions with the person he loved, covert kisses and inside jokes. He paled, and Sherlock glanced quizzically at him.

"I meant what I said at the crime scene, Sherlock. Please don't go to Bart's until this over."

"Oh _please_, John. If he wanted me, he would have found me by now. My mastectomy was registered with the NHS, as are my testosterone treatments. I believe he might only be going after metoidioplasty patients, but I will need the evidence from my ignorant louse of a brother to be sure."

"I know, but we can't take chances. Please. Just I – "

"You can't bear the thought of losing me," Sherlock supplied, his voice a low, husky murmur. "I saw that in your eyes when we came to the crime scene. You weren't seeing that man lying dead on the ground. You were seeing _me_."

John nodded, looking away again, his lips tightening.

"It's fine, John. I don't mind the concern. I . . . "

At the pause, John looked up, his expression unreadable.

"I appreciate it." Sherlock mustered the barest trace of a smile, bringing his index finger to rest on the tip of John's collarbone, tracing its length before it plunged into the depths of the shorter man's jumper. John let out a deep sigh, but neglected to move the offending digit. "Sociopaths don't just get bored, John. They get lonely too," he whispered.

"Is that so?" John intoned, kissing a reverent path down Sherlock's thin neck.

"Well, I make this assumption based on an exceptionally small subject pool which consists of only myself. I would assume other sociopaths, such as Moriarty, also feel such human emotions and strive to satisfy them by sustained contact with their victims, either sexually or in a sadistic physical context. I, however, seek to fulfill these base needs by having you with me, always."

At John's nonplussed look, Sherlock quieted. "Just a fact," he pouted.

"I know," the doctor replied, threading his fingers through Sherlock's snake-pit of curls. "But sometimes you don't have to further explain yourself and ruin the romantic moment, Sherr. Sometimes just a kiss is enough."

Sherlock complied enthusiastically, giving him a passionate kiss before pulling away and reaching to wrap a scarf around his partner's neck. "Sated?"

"Yes. Off to battle with your brother, then," John rolled his eyes.

"You're quite lucky Lestrade has less brains in his head than condoms in his pocket, by the way," the detective offered, dumping half the sugar bowl in his now-lukewarm tea.

"How's that, Future Heart Disease Victim? Your arteries have to be made of granite by now," John observed, dumping the tea straight down the sink as a pout descended on Sherlock's face.

"I get plenty of exercise, I'll have you know."

"I do know. You were saying."

"Well, your unnecessary and obnoxious – though protective and, hence, rather, um, romantic – restriction on my hospital access. He assumed it was because the murderer would recognize that I was on the case and attempt to attack me while I was studying. However, anyone with even a dull intellect would make the leap that perhaps I was of the same cultural subset as the murder victim, therefore coming to the conclusion that I am transgender. Thankfully, Lestrade notices an alarmingly small amount of contextual clues, especially when his attention is devoted elsewhere – such as the fact that his hair is beginning to bald at the temples, and his son pilfered a ten-pound note from his pocket before he left for work. What an annoyingly mundane man for such an exceedingly important position."

John chuckled. "Well, thank my lucky stars, then. Though why he would care if you're transgender or not is beyond me." His tone softened as he squeezed Sherlock's hand. "You're just you. It doesn't change anything about you."

"Yes, we've had this conversation before. I believe it was before you performed your first sexual act upon me."

"Yes, let's pathologize that a bit more, can we? You know how sexy medical terms are in bed," John deadpanned. "Anyway, this has been a lovely chat, Sherr, but I need to go talk to your brother before I lose my nerve."

"Better you than me. He'd lose his head before I lost my nerve."

John smiled, reaching up for a quick peck. "Well aware."

"Take care."

"No fires."

"No fights."

"Can't guarantee anything."

"Me neither – especially not with Mycroft involved."

". . . I love you, John."

"I know. And I love you too."

"Now get out!"

John laughed, cheerily waving as he stomped down the stairs.

Sherlock waited 20 minutes before pulling a vial of the victim's blood from his pocket, grateful that the Scotland Yard medical team was too inept to notice his clumsy and quick syringe jab – he'd had hell from Lestrade the last time he had siphoned off plasma to perform his own investigation. It wouldn't take long to hand off the vial to Molly with specific instructions as to what to do: he wouldn't be in the building for more than ten minutes. But breaking John's rule did pain him; he'd promised to honor his simple requests as best he could, had made it a vital part of their relationship.

_Just this once. And it doesn't count if I bring his gun, _Sherlock reasoned.

Tightening his scarf about his neck, he padded up to John's room, pulling his service weapon from his desk. Then he was off, grabbing a taxi to St. Bart's with only a twinge of regret.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft's office smelled pungently of years upon years of tobacco usage; the smoke pervaded every surface, echoing it into eternity. The smell somehow suited the slightly overweight, balding, eagle-nosed man standing before John, looking bored and rather agitated as he offered his visitor tea and then promptly forgot to fulfill the request. Both of them – Mycroft and the smell of tobacco – made John want to retch violently, and both of them never seemed to fully go away.

"Doctor Watson, so nice to see you again. I imagine this has to do with my brother's little pastime?"

John winced, suppressing the strong urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. There's recently been a murder of a female-to-male transsexual, and Sherlock suspects that this is only the latest in a string of transphobic hate crimes."

Living with Sherlock had sharpened John's powers of observation, enough that he caught the look of fear that flashed across Mycroft's face. Of course. Mycroft worried about his brother constantly; how could he not be terrified half out of his mind when there was a serial killer preying on the trans men of London? John sighed.

"It looks as if he's only targeting men who have had metoidioplasties, which Sherlock has not. I assume this is because this is a surgery that only trans men receive, unlike mastectomies, hysterectomies, or hormone therapies. It's the easiest way for him to determine his targets without accidentally capturing or killing a non-transgendered person."

"I see my brother has been a positive force in your deductive reasoning."

John struggled to hide his prideful smile. "I would assume so, yes."

Mycroft nodded. "And I would assume that this is not a courtesy call, and my brother has requested that you obtain information from me to further help him in his tinkering."

The doctor bit his tongue again, staying his hand from reaching for his nose in his typical display of frustration. "Is it possible to get a list of the transgendered people killed or missing in the last ten years in the metropolitan area of London and the surrounding vicinities?"

"Of course," the government official smiled graciously, right as his phone buzzed insistently on his desk. John's eyes moved immediately to it. _Anthea or Sherlock? Must be Sherlock. Anthea was outside in the reception area when I came in. She would have just knocked. _

Mycroft's eyes also strayed to the phone, and as he moved to his sleek black laptop, he also picked up his Blackberry in one fluid motion. As the laptop woke up, the elder Holmes brother's eyes flicked over the tiny screen of his phone. John saw the lid of his left eye twitch as the phone buzzed thrice more, signaling the arrival of three new text messages.

_Only Sherlock texts that much_, John considered dully.

Mycroft set the phone down, offering his visitor a tight smile. "Give me just a moment, if you will, Doctor Watson. Some minor clerical work to attend to, and then I will offer you that data. It is fortunate, in your case, that the London Metropolitan Police has an LGBT police liaison for each borough, and they do a quite admirable job of documenting each transphobic crime that occurs. It will not be difficult in the least to create your report."

Mycroft's phone buzzed a fifth time, and even a man like Anderson would be able to see the look of pure pain that crossed the man's face as he read the text. He bit his lip, turning his eyes back to his screen and typing more furiously than before.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Holmes?"

The government worker turned his eyes back to John, sitting small and uncomfortable in the huge old leather chair provided for him.

"God only hopes so."

Deciding to change the subject, John looked hesitantly at the man now standing beside his desk. "Mr. Holmes? Do you think I could ask you a few . . . personal questions?"

Mycroft smiled indulgently. "You mean personal questions about my brother."

"Well, yes."

"Of course. It is your right to know, after all, about his life as Sherlyn."

"How did you-?"

Sherlock's brother laughed: instead of helping him to relax, the noise simply sent chills down Watson's spine. "Sherlock is not the only blessed recipient of the Holmes intellect, Doctor Watson. I would not be half the obedient civil servant I am without a modicum of deductive ability. You have come to me, asking me to provide you with information about transgendered hate crimes; you surely know about my brother's transgender status, being both a doctor and his lover."

"Now that's just creepy, that you know about _that_."

"I have declined to put cameras in either of your bedrooms, but you and my brother tend not to be very . . . discreet . . . about your sexual dalliances."

John coughed to cover his surprise, and made a mental note not to seduce Sherlock onto the kitchen table ever again.

"Regardless. What would you like to know? A chronological, historical account of his medical transition, or familial impressions of him as Sherlyn?"

"If you could spare the time, I'd like to hear all of it?"

The Holmes brother's terrifying grin returned, making John squirm in his seat. "Of course. You make my brother the happiest man in the world. I cannot iterate to you how _contented_ that makes me."

The doctor supplied a nervous smile in return, settling down in his seat as Mycroft perched on the edge of his desk like a vulture.

"Sherlyn was a reckless child; this will probably not surprise you, being as you know the positively thoughtless man that girl became. She – and I only say she because that is how I knew him in those days – stolidly refused to accept the rules of our family, and being as we were quite a traditional homestead, this was particularly troubling to our father and mother. They had longed for a winsome, delicate girl to follow after me, their firstborn son, and Sherlyn denied this dream at every turn.

"She would cut up her dresses to make dressings and sutures for wounded animals she came across in the woods on the estate – Sherlock has always had a soft spot for animals, particularly cats, but never the ability to provide them with sustained care and affection – and would hide during banquets, sneaking out of the house to go play in the stables with the horses. She learned to ride when she was only five, and her feet barely touched the ground for weeks during the summer. This did not behoove a young lady, galloping off at breakneck speeds and working the polo ponies into a lather, and my parents did their best to put a stop to it, but their remonstrations were never successful, it seemed.

"She was a particularly reckless child, always out exploring, analyzing and making sense of the natural world. Reading came to her quickly, and in the times where she couldn't go outside, she was glued to a book for a reading level far beyond her age. She was always interested in crime novels, but became frustrated with them after about the age of seven, as he said that the detectives always seemed to miss crucial details and the authors never provided enough information for her to inference the solution. After she broke her leg in a nasty fall, I started to bring him the crime ledgers for the local municipalities, which she loved. He would spend hours cooped in bed researching these crimes, demanding books from the local library. One of his favorites was the Carl Powers case: he even wrote to the police about it, but they ignored her, as she was still technically a girl. I believe it was that summer, laid up in bed with a broken leg, that led her to become the man he is today.

"Sherlyn was also what is known as an early articulator. After the age of four she vehemently denied being a girl, demanding everyone call her 'he'. I helped him find the name Sherlock in an old register of English names, and it stuck immediately. After the age of five I was compelled to call her 'he' and Sherlock in private, though our parents disapproved immensely and would correct her whenever she brought it up. I do believe that I was the only friend he had at the time, others thinking her to be too strange and solitary for their company. And it was I that he came to, wanting to learn about the ways to modify her body to become the boy he wanted to be. We researched surgeries exhaustively, in the time between her social duties to our family and his newfound obsession with crime and deduction. He began to write regularly to the police under the name Sherlock, gaining somewhat of an interested following amongst the officers.

"Puberty came, and as much as I lobbied relentlessly for our parents to authorize hormone blockers so he would not undergo the typical feminization, they ignored my constant requests. Sherlock bound his breasts aggressively, in the hopes that it would prevent them from growing any further, and his menstruations were crippling, leaving him sobbing in the bathtub for hours with waves of dysphoria. He became deeply depressed, lashing out at those who loved him. It was then that our relationship rotted from the fraternal camaraderie of childhood to the resentful codependency it remains today. He turned to drugs in a helpless attempt to remove himself from his physical form, to allow him to take up residence purely in his mind; obviously, this failed. I helped him sober up after ten long years of cocaine usage, leading him gently down the path to where he is today, with a mild nicotine addiction and little more. It was a difficult time.

"I also helped him to secure his mastectomy, as well as his testosterone treatment. He began hormone treatment at eighteen, having his mastectomy at age 24 and his hysterectomy at age 25. I asked him to consider further treatments, but he refused, stating that the time he had sacrificed to obtain the two surgeries had damaged his career enough. Being as the hysterectomy was medically necessary, but a metoidioplasty was not as long as he is comfortable with his . . . person . . . I decided not to press further. So that is where it stands, Doctor Watson. Oh! Anthea. The hate crime list. Thank you." Mycroft nodded at his assistant as she discreetly handed him a thin packet of papers.

John, engrossed in thought of Sherlock's childhood, startled when his own phone buzzed just as Mycroft handed him the list of the transphobic hate crimes from the last ten years in London and the surrounding areas. All the blood drained from his face as he stared at the screen, and he could barely feel the fresh paper cut stinging in his hand as he crushed the fresh paper from his panicked grip.

_Help. St. Barts. Hank. Run. SH_

"I. . . I have to go, Mycroft," he stammered, nearly knocking over his chair as he stood up hastily.

The man's eyes were narrowed – _in pain? in suspicion? _– as he watched the doctor leave. He called out after Sherlock's partner, his voice cracking slightly.

"Godspeed, John. Tell him I'll be there to clean it up. I always am."


	5. Chapter 5

In the muted twilight interior of the cab, as the sun sank sharply over the jagged horizon of London's skyline, Sherlock did what he did best – gloated.

This case may well have been his best: an estimated 20 murder victims would be revenged with one Harnot (nickname Hank) Andrew Farwether's arrest, Sherlock determined from the police reports he easily purloined from the database of the LGBT police liaisons. And John H Watson – _his_ John H Watson – had been the linchpin that brought down the forensic pathologist (_43, graduated from St. Mary's forensic pathology department class of 1989, worked for a small Shropshire undertaker before returning to the hospital at age 34, remained ever since_). John, the protector, inadvertently shielding any further trans men from coming to harm: the thought spurred a tingle of pleasure down his spine. His John, saving lives without even knowing it.

Every serial killer made a mistake, especially when they targeted their victims out of a personal vendetta. Their blind rage blinkered them to anything but their goal of clearing the world of their hated subgroup: in this case, it had spurred Hank to attack an innocent man accompanying his transgendered partner to a pelvic exam appointment in a sleepy corner of central London. And oh, how unfortunate Hank was that the man he battered happened to be the ex-Army doctor, soldier, blogger, and lover of Sherlock Holmes. How exceptionally unfortunate.

His scuffle with John had put him on Sherlock's radar. He remembered him well – heavyset, about 6'4", strong calloused hands with pronounced veins through the arm and down to the thumb, suggesting that he spent a great deal of time working with his hands and enacting heavy pressure with the butt of his thumb. The bruises around John's neck and throat after the fight told Sherlock that Hank was likely to attempt to smother or strangle his victims to subdue them; when this very same pattern of abuse appeared on a trans man, after the violent outburst related to Sherlock's own transgendered status – well. It was easy enough to put the pieces together. Child's play.

Of course he had to test his hypothesis, gather data, but John, oh _John._ He was the mistake. He was the key to the whole puzzle, because without John's accurate description of his attacker's methods, Sherlock wouldn't have known a damn thing. How very fortunate they were that John had bullied Sherlock to the clinic on that very same day, and that the detective had dared to purr naughty things in his lover's ear! Sherlock reminded himself to always sexually frustrate John in public from hence forward: it clearly afforded them positive results in regards to potential queer-phobic serial killers.

But how to draw him out? How could he lead him along in a merry dance to his location, without getting his clitoris chopped off in the process? At the thought of genital mutilation to himself, he winced on John's behalf. The soldier did so love to 'go down' on him. It would be a pity to deprive him of that eternal pleasure just for something as trivial as a case.

Sherlock stopped himself, rewound the thought, and winced again. _When did I make my work my mistress instead of my wife? No matter. She can't keep me warm at night. And she doesn't bring me breakfast in bed when I make that look John describes as 'sultry'._

Lestrade texted him just then, startling him out of his reverie.

_victim's name Edward Jakes metoidioplasty April 5 2006._

Sherlock nodded. Not important at the moment. He returned to his calculation when his phone buzzed again.

_anyone who got a metoidioplasty at 27 Devonshire Place Mews five yrs ago targeted._

27 Devonshire Place Mews shared the same subway stop as Baker Street; it would make sense for him to have gone there, had he chosen to have a metoidioplasty. Of course, he hadn't been living at 221B Baker Street five years ago, but his friendly serial killer wouldn't know such a thing. His phone buzzed once more.

_seven trans men on the missing persons list who had their surgeries there 7-5 yrs ago._

Sherlock smiled triumphantly. A solution offered to him that was beyond beautiful – elegant really.

The serial killer would strike again soon, he knew it. He would make this personal, draw him out, draw him _here_, and it would take little more than –

He huffed. _Mycroft_. Of course. That incessant bloated gnat would have to be involved. Sherlock had plenty of advantages to the average serial killer, but complete and unquestioned access to every document in the government's databases was not one of them.

_Need you to manipulate medical files. SH_

_Insert Sherlock Holmes, metoidioplasty, into medical files of 27 Devonshire Place Mews as of April 7 2006. SH_

_Do not insert address simply place [redacted]. Employer St. Bartholomews Hospital as transgender health researcher, mumble jumble something or other. SH_

That would draw him out without question. A trans man with a metoidioplasty and an interest in advancing transgender health? Surely he would be a more satisfying kill than the average everyday bloke, with a record like that.

Sherlock thought deeply about the next step. John had neglected to press charges against Hank – his merciful nature was quite grating at times, really – but surely Hank would remember the name of the man who could have locked him up for good. As much as he would rather not place John in any matter of harm, it was the final treat to dangle in front of the murderer's nose. The most personal catalyst, designed to get under the transphobe's skin more than any other – killing the spouse of the man who had bested him in a fistfight. What could be better to soothe the psychic wounds of a deranged man?

_Place Dr. John H Watson as spouse of Sherlock Holmes at time of metoidioplasty. SH_

He smiled a little. Hopefully his future medical records would bear that information genuinely.

The cab jutted to a stop, and Sherlock glanced up at the illuminated exterior of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, its angles grotesque in the newly fallen night.

He was placing himself into an unacceptable level of danger as judged by his partner. He was also breaking a simple rule that John had put into place to protect him. In fact, he was gleefully dangling himself in front of a deranged psychopath, instructing his brother to create false medical files in order to inflame the man's hatred for his kind, taunting a murderer into taking him on.

And damn, did that feel good.

Stepping into the cold, antiseptic air of the hospital, Sherlock strode purposefully to the stairs, taking them two at a time down to the pathology department. He could feel the vial of blood in his pocket sloshing about, reminding him to keep up the ruse of needing blood samples. Molly was, blessedly, working the night shift tonight: he'd memorized her schedule, knowing that her pathetic and unrequited crush on him afforded him a valuable minion whenever he required lab work that was deeply beneath him to perform.

He felt a quick twinge in his left leg, a psychosomatic sympathy pain he developed shortly after meeting John. It only hurt him when he was actively hurting his partner – a stopcock for his sociopathic tendencies before they damaged the man he loved. And he was doing quite a bit of damage tonight, to be sure.

There was a chance that he would not make it out of this encounter alive (66.8%, accounting for 40 different variables). That was an unacceptable danger in the eyes of his lover, who fretted if Sherlock left the apartment without a warm coat ("Pneumonia, Sherlock – I've seen far too many cases of coatless-induced pneumonia to be comfortable with your lack of a jacket") or stubbed his toe on a pesky stair step ("It could get infected! You could get gangrene! And necropsy! And die!"). He had learned to sacrifice in the name of criminology, to martyr himself for science's sake, but John – his sweet, lovable, fair-minded, caring, deeply empathic opposite in all matters of love and justice – would not, would _never_ accept such a fate for the man he adored.

Sherlock bit his lip as the pain got worse, as if he had been shot in the leg. Sometimes he wondered if it was the only way he knew to show his affection: by hurting himself for his sake.

_If I die tell John I would have divorced my work in a heartbeat for him had he ever asked. SH_

Molly looked up as Sherlock shoved the doors open. "You're here late!" she commented enthusiastically, raking her eyes over his disheveled figure.

A little kindness wouldn't kill him, he decided. "And you're looking quite nice today. The aqua of your blouse brings out your eyes very well. Cool tones suit you, Molly."

The short lab tech nearly broke several capillaries in her face with the force of her blush. She smiled radiantly, practically vibrating with glee.

"I need a lab report on this vial of blood," Sherlock intoned, bringing the conversation back to the nature of his visit.

"Of course! Anything! Toxicology?"

"Yes, please. Also, if you can manage to tease it out, measure the androgen and testosterone levels as well as cortisol."

"Sure thing, Sherlock!" Molly chirped, bounding out of the room with the enthusiasm of a five year old on Christmas morning.

Sherlock smirked. Then his grin faded as he thought, once again, of his partner, sitting uncomfortably in Mycroft's office, probably fighting not to be pulled into his brother's gravitational field. He pulled out his phone, crafting a text, then put it away, steepling his fingers.

If his estimations were right – and they always were – he had about thirty minutes until the killer arrived. He had waited nearly a day, and would probably now be checking the NHS list again, finding a suitable recipient for his murderous hatred. He could use this downtime to untangle the gnarled threads of this mystery.

_Why 27 Devonshire Place Mews? They were one of the only FTM surgery providers in London, but there were others in the surrounding areas. This suggested that, again, it was a personal vendetta. Someone he loved – or hated – had been treated at the clinic. They were transgender. Since he was killing only those with metoidioplasties, the object of his anger had been a trans man: not necessarily with that same procedure. _

_Metoidioplasties were merely the only surgery performed only on trans men, _as far as Sherlock was aware. _Hysterectomies common in post partum women. Mastectomies usually undergone by breast cancer survivors. Hormone replacement therapies affected both trans men and trans women – not specific enough. Phalloplasties sometimes performed on cisgendered men who had suffered severe penile trauma. It wasn't the actual surgery the man was interested in. It was a convenient and relatively easy way to find trans men without accidentally targeting another surgery recipient._

_Strength and duration of the hatred suggested that the actual object of anger was long-dead, forcing him to take out his frustrations on those with similar backgrounds. Childhood trauma. Venting his anger and devastation at a transgendered family member by killing other trans men. _

_Brother? Unlikely – close enough access that killer could have simply done off with brother. Mother undergoing transition? Improbable. Ah!_

_Mother abandoned family, ran off with trans man. Father dead or out of picture. Trans man killed mother possibly? Anger of abandonment not enough – would have also targeted spouses of trans men as well, wouldn't have let John get away before killing him. John did not suggest he was in mortal danger and was able to subdue him without grievous bodily harm. Trans man ran off with mother , killed her. Most likely conclusion._

Sherlock sat back, a satisfied smile resting easily upon his lips. Base instincts led to elementary solutions for seemingly impossible problems. The human capacity for violence and transplanted hatred never surprised him.

Footsteps down the hallway: too heavy to be Molly's. Back-to-front toe motion suggested man in heavy workboots. Heavyset. Gait canted to right side; right-handed, heavyset man carrying a gun. Sherlock yawned. Gunshot wound – boring way to die.

"I guess I'm not good enough for the _interesting_ death," the consulting detective groused, standing up and brushing off his suit. He reached quickly into his pocket and pressed the 'SEND' button on his phone, before the door slammed open and Sherlock stared his possible death right in the eyes.

_Help. St. Barts. Hank. Run. SH_


	6. Chapter 6

John ran. He ran as far and as fast as he could, taking as many shortcuts as he could remember from his time dogging criminals through the twisting London streets with Sherlock. His lungs burned and his shoulder stung with each pained swing of his arms, but he didn't care. He could have hailed a cab, but he didn't care for that either. The pure adrenaline pouring from his brain, racing through his veins, felt enough to power the whole of Smithfield for centuries. There was no greater catalyst than fear and uncertainty, and both emotions were washing over him in almost palpable waves of panic.

It took him 22 minutes to reach the hospital, and he nearly collapsed, spent, at the foot of the King Henry VIII Gate – but no. Sherlock was still in there somewhere, possibly dead, lying murdered by a psychopathic forensic pathologist with an uncommon hatred of trans men. And Sherlock's own stupidity and heedlessness had brought him there: no. There wasn't time for anger yet. The rage could come later, if Sherlock survived. And that wouldn't happen if he wasn't there to save him.

He paused for only a second to shoot off a quick text to Lestrade –

_St. Barts. Sherlock drew out killer. Assailant armed. Ambulance. Back up._

– before continuing his chase.

Slamming through the doors, shoving a frightened orderly aside, John raced downstairs, taking the steps two at a time, his body thrumming with panic. He reached for his service weapon in the waistband, only to come up empty. He cursed. No time for that now. He could take the man down with his bare fists if necessary. All that mattered was getting to Sherlock – _now._

His brain was working on autopilot, the muscle memory of years of walking these same hallways leading John straight to the forensic pathology lab in the basement of the building. He slammed open the doors, only to find Sherlock facing down the murderer with a cold, calculated expression – and John's gun aimed squarely at Hank's face. A slight shift of Sherlock's eyes told him that he had been acknowledged, and then John leapt upon the massive man, knocking him sideways with the force of his impetus.

"RUN!" he screamed to his partner, who paused only for one agonizing second before dashing out of the room. He knew that John could take care of himself: despite his small stature, he was army trained and already recognized his assailant's fighting style. Sherlock, on the other hand, was relatively defenseless against anyone heavier than him, by dint of his slender build and amateur knowledge of hand-to-hand combat.

Hank shook John off like a bear throwing away a pitbull, turning on his heavy heel to pursue Sherlock. The ex-soldier desperately grabbed the murderer's leg, clinging with all his might as he was shaken heftily from side to side. "NO!" he screamed, his voice husky with testosterone as Hank gave up on shaking him, running down the hallway with John attached firmly to his leg.

Up one flight of stairs was the nearest emergency exit: John could hear Sherlock's light and frantic footsteps in the stairwell ahead of them, and he prayed that his body weight would be heavy enough to slow Hank and allow his partner to get to safety. However, the murderer slammed his foot down on John's right hand, causing him to cry out and let go, cursing himself immediately. The doctor stood, chasing Hank down as he clambered up the metal steps, his footfalls ringing out in the enclosed space.

They both burst out of the emergency exit nearly simultaneously, John close enough to grab Hank's arm, but not fast enough to keep him from raising his gun and aiming it squarely at Sherlock's slim form as he ran down the alleyway.

Sherlock's entire body recoiled with the sharp retort of Hank's gun, and he crumpled limply to the ground within seconds, curling up around his left leg like a snake. He moaned softly, pressing a shaking hand to the wound, as John dropped down beside him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you conscious? Speak to me. Talk to me. Breathe in, come on, breathe out," John murmured desperately, batting the detective's hand away from the crimson pool forming on his trouser leg. Leaning in close to look in the dull light of the alleyway, he saw with horror that the wound went straight through the femur, splintering it. _Sherlock may never run again_, he noted. The stress fractures reverberating throughout the bone would take care of that.

The man in question was taking great gasps of air, panting as if he couldn't breathe, and his skin was growing a ghastly blue color, cold to the touch. Shock was setting in, all of Sherlock's adrenaline spent from the chase throughout St. Barts. John grabbed the man's cold hands and pressed them against the wound once more, pulling off his own coat to add more pressure.

"John," the wounded man moaned, his eyes latching on to his doctor's.

"You need to hold this here, okay? I need to go catch that fucker," John whispered, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's, kissing his pale lips. "Don't move. Not even an inch. The paramedics will be here soon."

His partner merely nodded mutely, all the fight drained from him.

"Please don't die on me, Sherlock, _mani_," John begged, using the pet name he had given to Sherlock in honor of his time in Afghanistan. "You _can't_ die on me. Please."

"Go catch him," Sherlock replied simply. "Gun." He gestured weakly to John's Browning lying on the asphalt beside him.

With a nod and one more kiss, John complied, scooping up the weapon and running as fast as his shaking legs could take him. The strength of his rage fueled him for one last second wind, sprinting furiously down the alleyway until he came upon the killer, trying desperately to open the door to a nearby warehouse.

John didn't even consider his action: he merely leapt, arcing gracefully above the ground before landing somewhere near Hank's midsection and latching on, wrapping his legs tightly about the burly man's waist. With a practiced, unconscious movement, he clicked off the safety of his gun and pressed the muzzle sharply against the man's skull.

"I have beaten the hell out of you once. I will be _happy_ to do it again. Or I could shoot you on the spot. It's your choice."

Hank turned slightly, and John caught the glint of his maniacal smile. His voice was pudding-thick, retaining a Scouse gruffness that belied his youth spent in the vicious North. "Be a pleasure."

"No, no. I think that's too fucking _good_ for you, motherfucker. If there is a Hell, you're not going to it. God himself will want to torture you for eternity." John smiled, resisting Hank's attempts to throw him off, and shot his partner's assailant right through the shoulder. "_Rache_," he hissed as Hank screamed.

Sirens approached, and John slipped down from the murderer's back, leaving him writhing helplessly on the ground. Sherlock was already on a stretcher as he wavered down the alleyway, occasionally leaning against the wall for support as the adrenaline left his body in waves. He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply, and stood up straight to join his partner beside the ambulance.

It didn't look good. Sherlock was a ghostly, mottled blue in the sweeping lights of the paramedic's torches, taking quick, shallow breaths as his body attempted to process the cortisol flooding its pathways. John immediately took up residence beside him, offering soft murmurs of comfort as the consulting detective struggled to focus his gaze upon his partner.

Lestrade, dispatching two strong-armed bobbies to handle the criminal, stood beside the gurney, concern etched heavily in his features. "Is he going to be okay?" He asked, somewhat rhetorically, to the paramedics busily snipping Sherlock's trousers from his legs.

"Oh, _fuck_ – no, do you think you could not?" John pleaded, realizing their intent. The paramedics merely ignored him. Sherlock, catching John's gaze, offered him a look of resigned displeasure before closing his eyes and passing out entirely. John would have liked to pass out too, knowing what was about to be revealed.

After several weeks of their intimacy, John had admitted that the incongruence between Sherlock's expected genitalia and the actual physicality of his sex organ was intensely erotic to him in a way he couldn't explain; thus, Sherlock had hastened out to buy the sheerest, sexiest lingerie that Fenwick sold, often in outrageous and very indecorous colors. Sherlock had worn a lacy green thong that morning, the type that left little to the imagination. They had planned on spending that night in bed, making triumphant love to one another while listening to classic symphonies on John's iHome. Obviously Sherlock had not had the time to change out of the thong before dashing out to take on his attempted killer.

A tight crowd of police officers – including Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson – had congregated around the gurney, watching as, snip by snip, Sherlock's gruesome injury was revealed. Even John winced: deep black bruises were already ringing the border of the wound, and the jagged trajectory of the bullet stood out starkly against the pale white of Sherlock's skin. But worse were the varying looks of shock and confusion as the trousers were fully cut away, and the detective's half-transparent underclothing was revealed. It was clear to anyone with eyes that Sherlock most decidedly did not have a penis.

Sally Donovan's jaw looked about to dislocate itself, and Anderson gaped unabashedly, his eyes squinting in confusion.

Lestrade, to his credit, merely shrugged, dismissing it as unimportant, but not without a smirk at Sherlock's choice of apparel. "Come on then, folks. Let's let the paramedics handle it. We've got a murderer to arrest." He led Donovan from the scene, and she followed him compliantly, stealing a glance over her shoulder at John, her expression unreadable.

Anderson stood for a moment longer, looking from Sherlock to John and back again. John stared back, hoping his glare would melt a hole into Anderson's brain, allowing him to perform a sorely-needed lobotomy.

"So. . . " Anderson started, then stopped to look again. He leaned in close to John, who moved away. "Does this mean I can't call him a dick?"

John let out a deep, angry sigh. "Anderson. I _will_ put a hypodermic needle into your eye. Leave."

The officer backed away quickly, fear stamped on his features, and the doctor smiled, a tacit threat hanging in his eyes. Then he turned back to the unconscious Sherlock, brushing his hair out of his eyes and looking up at the paramedics, who were busily putting in IVs.

"Is he ready to take in?"

"Yes. Thank goodness he chose to get shot right outside of a hospital."

"Very good." John nodded, his shoulders sagging as he pressed his left hand deeply into the foam of the gurney in an attempt to keep himself upright. Whipping out his phone, he texted Mycroft, using the last strength in his (_trembling – they weren't before, but now the adrenaline's gone, damn_) fingers.

_Safe. Arrest. Sherlock shot – St. Barts. Come if convenient. Or if not._


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock's fitful slumber, imprisoned in a tangle of bandages and wires, drifted away on the lull of John's soothing tenor, reading to his partner.

". . . _The fugitive was following the boulevards, but suddenly he turned into a side street and made his way toward the Temple, where, soon afterward, Father Absinthe and Lecoq found him conversing with one of those importunate dealers in cast-off garments who consider every passer-by their lawful prey. The vender and May were evidently debating a question of price; but the latter was plainly no skilful bargainer, for with a somewhat disappointed air he soon gave up the discussion and entered the –_"

"Oh god, is that _Monsieur Lecoq_?" Sherlock mumbled, his voice raspy from sleep and the intubation he had received upon arrival at the hospital.

The detective heard, rather than saw, John put the book face-down into his lap. "Yes – one of my favorites from when I was a kid. Why, what do you think?"

"Lecoq was a miserable bungler," he rasped angrily, struggling to sit up before being gently pressed down by John's hand. "He had only one good thing, and that was his energy. This book makes me positively ill."

A hint of a smile honeyed John's voice. "Is that so?"

"Yes! The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months to do so. It might as well be a textbook on what to avoid in detective work."

"Mmm," the doctor offered, laughing. "I'll suggest that to Lestrade for his newbies. I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

Sherlock coughed, bringing a hand to his mouth, only to be hit in the teeth by a venous port. He frowned querulously, squinting at John accusingly. His partner raised his hands in supplication.

"I actually wasn't in the room while they were working on you, Sherr, I promise. I was out with Lestrade so I could be with you when you woke up. As soon as you were in good hands, I went to give my statement."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed into slits, and John sighed, defeated.

"Yes, they saw. I'm sorry. I asked the paramedics not to but they didn't listen."

"And?"

"Lestrade didn't care. I told you he wouldn't. He asked me if you needed any transgendered health services, like mental health support, and when I said you were fine he dropped the subject. The only person that even seemed mildly interested in Anderson, and that's only because he wanted to know what insults were still apropos now that he knew."

The detective growled, a scratchy sound in his throat. "So like him. Bastard."

"Did you expect more of him?" At the vehement shake of the head, John rolled his eyes. "Exactly. Nothing has changed. I know you were worried, but they don't think any less of you. In fact, Lestrade said he was quite proud of you for the way you handled yourself during the investigation, given the nature of the attacks. And you know he's not one to praise with abandon."

Sherlock nodded, taking in the information with clouded eyes.

"Are you okay?" John asked, reaching his hand out to rest it on Sherlock's un-taped hand. "I mean really."

The man merely dropped his head onto his chest, falling silent.

"Yes, I _am_ mad at you, Sherlock. But it's the kind of anger that comes when you love someone so much that it enrages you when they put themselves in danger. It's a protective anger. But we can talk about that when you're better, okay? Sherlock?" He put his finger to his partner's chin, forcing him to raise his head. "Please."

He nodded, slightly. "I'm sorry," he croaked. John caught the slight moistening of the detective's eyes before his vision was obscured by a cloud of black curls.

Vulnerability was not Sherlock's strong suit, and it tended to make him a shivering mess of anxiety. John unlocked the guard rail of the bed and put it down, pulling his flatmate partially into his lap – mindful of his leg wound – and rubbing soothing circles onto his thin back. "Shhh. It's okay. I'm not going to leave you, I'm not going to yell at you or kick you out. Don't even think those things. You know we go through this every time we have a tiff – it's not going to happen. I promise.

"I was just so afraid, Sherr. When I got that text, it felt like my heart fell out through my feet: I thought you were dead, or dying, and I was going to be too late to save you. You can't imagine the kind of things that went through my head. I have never ran so hard in my life. I would have killed that bastard with my bare hands if I could. But it's over, and we're okay, and you're safe and you will get better."

"I'm not going to run ever again, am I," Sherlock mumbled into John's chest.

The doctor shut his eyes tight for a second, running his tongue slowly along his lip before hashing out his reply. "I'm not sure. It was a pretty awful shatter: you needed a lot of surgery. But you're young and in amazing shape, love. With some physical therapy you might be able to manage it. And if you can't, I'll just carry you and run after the criminals myself."

Sherlock's voice, hazy with sleep, sounded significantly lighter at that comment. "We could get a little carriage and I could harness you to it like a mule."

John laughed, petting his partner's scalp affectionately. "Of course. A bit in my mouth and a carrot dangling over my head."

"More like a Jammy Dodger."

"Hey, now. That's Mycroft, not me."

They both laughed at that, loud enough that they missed the knock at the door as a nurse came in to check Sherlock's vitals. Embarrassed, they sprung away from each other – Sherlock gingerly, John more quickly – and looked in opposite directions as the nurse performed his duties, afraid they would start laughing again should they glance at each other.

With the hospital employee gone, John once again gathered his lover into his arms, running a heavy hand through Sherlock's hair. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the detective's temple, resting his forehead there as they breathed against each other, a common ritual they performed after moments of stress. "I love you," he whispered.

"And I love you too. Especially when you run all the way from Whitehall to save me," Sherlock breathed, kissing John back with a reverence that only he could bring to such a simple gesture.

Sherlock fell asleep once more soon after, a welcome weight in John's tired arms. The doctor was reading the rest of _Monsieur Lecoq, _holding it up with his bandaged right hand, when there was another knock at the door.

"Come in!" he shouted, quietly enough not to wake Sherlock but loud enough to invite in the visitor.

He nearly dropped his book when the black curls of Sally Donovan came into view. Her face was partially obscured by a huge pot of purple hyacinths, their rich scent perfuming the room and obscuring the sharp sting of antiseptic and bacitracin, and she carried a small teddy bear in her left hand.

"Hi," she offered awkwardly, setting the flowerpot down on a low table in the corner of the room.

"Hello, Sally," John replied, his tone neutral.

Her face twisted into an expression of pain as she sat down, crossing and uncrossing her legs several times. "Listen, John."

"I am."

"I'm really sorry about all the awful things I've said to him," she said quietly, her finger brushing the tip of one of the flowers she'd bought. "I honestly had no idea that he was, was . . . "

"Transgender?"

"Yes. But that doesn't excuse it either. I was petty and infantile and jealous. And I'm sorry. I really am." She shrugged her shoulders delicately, looking ruefully at the flowers. "I know it's not saying much, but I thought some apology flowers would be nice?"

"No, Sally," John countered sincerely, "It does say a lot. It's a nice thing of you to do. Honestly."

The officer squirmed awkwardly in her seat, her shoulders twisting in the beige peacoat she wore everywhere. "I just feel _awful_. I had no idea of what he was going through, and to hear that from me constantly – and those things I said to you – I'm really ashamed, John, I am." She bit her lip, clearly holding back tears.

John reached over to pat her knee sympathetically. "It's okay, Sally. Honestly. I know you didn't mean it. Adolescent jealousy. Happens to the best of us. You should have seen Sherlock snap at Detective Inspector Dimmock when he first met him. Nearly bit his head off. Told him to take his word as gospel. I was expecting fire and brimstone to start pouring from his mouth."

They both smiled at the thought, and Sally's face relaxed significantly. "Please let him know I'm sorry, and that if he'd like I can come visit him in hospital while he recovers, bring him some cases and so on."

"That would be a godsend, Sally. You have no idea how obnoxious he is when he's bored."

Donovan grinned, rolling her eyes. "I bet. It's no bother. I'll see if I can get some criminology books he hasn't read, too. Academic journals and so on. Least I can do."

John's smile was genuine as he nodded agreeably. "Thank you. Really."

"Thank you for agreeing to pass on the message. And I'm sorry, again."

The doctor shrugged, standing up to embrace her as she gathered her things. "Honestly, if you could just be a friend to him – even just spare him a smile – it would mean more than anything. His world is a lonely one; sometimes I'm all he has."

She patted him on the back, nodding fervently. "Of course. He deserves that much from me."

Ignored by both of them as they shared their moment of camaraderie, Sherlock smiled softly in his sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft was a near-constant presence in Sherlock's hospital room, regularly bringing the couple food, coffee, Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, and changes of clothes. Anthea was occasionally sent instead of Sherlock's brother himself, but it was more common to see the overweight, balding government official lounging nervously on a stiff chair, asking John what the various machines and read-outs meant, only to forget an hour later and have to ask again.

Sherlock's progress was phenomenal: his sheer force of will seemed to heal him faster than any medicine known to man, and his doctors were continually awed at how steadily he seemed to be knitting himself back together. John wasn't in the least bit astounded with his partner's recovery; neither was Mycroft. The enigmatic man lying in the bed, demanding various foodstuffs and whining about the lack of his violin, was surely the greatest act of God since the biblical Flood. Nothing – not a bullet in his femur, not a staph infection in the wound, not boredom induced rage – could stop him, not for long. John was only surprised at the fact that Sherlock had even been shot in the first place: surely a man with that much supernatural appeal could have been able to bend air to protect himself.

Sally Donovan did visit Sherlock's hospital bed several times over his two-week stay, to the initial chagrin and, later, acceptance of the patient. Within several days they were talking and laughing, almost like old friends, both having realized that beyond the initial hatred of each other, they had a surprising amount in common. Sally offered to take the pair paintballing next time she was able, suggesting it as an alternative to shooting holes in the wall when Sherlock was bored, and John eagerly grasped the idea as a way to prevent further damage charges on their rent.

There was a parade of others – Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Sarah, and even once, with a reproachful glare, Anderson – but mostly there was just a quiet, companionable silence between the two of them, John rubbing tender circles into the soft skin of Sherlock's upper arm as his most precious patient dozed. Sometimes they talked long into the night (Mycroft's sway having allowed John to stay indefinitely in the hospital suite); other times not a word passed between them for hours. There was unspoken agreement not to speak about Hank, the wound not yet scabbed over enough to probe with their thoughts.

The court case came and went – Lestrade had offered to provide transportation for Sherlock to join in the questioning, but John had whispered fervently into his cell phone not to even suggest such a thing – and the pair watched with a detached interest. The case, for Sherlock, was over: he had solved it, no further input involved. He had been right, of course, on everything. All 20 of the murder victims were accounted for, Harnot Andrew Farwether being sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole, and loved ones of the trans men all over London and beyond were coming together to grieve and remember their partners, parents, children, siblings, and friends. There was talk of giving Sherlock a knighthood, again: the detective merely groaned, shutting his eyes as if ill.

After the media frenzy died down and Sherlock was cleared to go home, stocked up on medication and scheduled to the hilt with physical therapy, the two found themselves back in the companionable silence of 221B Baker Street: Sherlock stretched out on the couch, his plastered leg propped on the armrest, John at the desk, clacking away on his laptop. Suddenly the doctor stopped, shutting the computer with a snap.

"Sherlock?"

The taller man set down his medical journal (a gift from Sally), sensing this would be a long talk. "John."

"Were you afraid?"

"Of course I was afraid, John," Sherlock replied dismissively.

"Why did you do it?" his partner asked, his voice soft, but with an undertone of hurt sucking at its edges.

"John, there's hearsay that the average transgendered person has a life expectancy of 26 years. I'm not sure if that's a real statistic – I've never seen the study it's apparently quoted from – but regardless, it's a sobering one. If so, I've outlived that by 8 years. And they have been an amazing 8 years: especially the last two."

John didn't attempt to hide his smile.

"I am at the zenith of my life, John. I have everything I require in this world: a steady source of income so I won't starve, an endless source of excitement in the job I made, and the love of my life, my constant companion and best friend. If I would have died then, my only regret would have been hurting you. But it was for justice. Always for justice. I live on stolen time, I live in the center of chaos: it would have meant something. That's all I can ask for in this world. To not be bored, and to mean something."

"At the risk of sounding cheesy. . . "

"You always sound cheesy. I should sell you off to the milkman."

John rolled his eyes, stealing over to sit beside the couch and rest his head against Sherlock's right hip. "Regardless. You mean the world to me, Sherlock."

"And you to me."

"It's okay. What we were worried about – it didn't happen. So I can be happy for that. Even if I am still a little angry at you for being so stupid and reckless."

Sherlock purred, a pantherine growl deep in his throat. "Too bad we can't have angry sex to make up for it."

"Quite. You and your stupid gunshot wound."

"Damn my leg!" Sherlock shouted, in a perfect parody of his partner.

John laughed uproariously, pulling Sherlock to his feet with consideration for his cast. "We might be able to manage anyway, you know."

"Ooh, a challenge. I prefer those."

"Air of excitement in the bedroom – always good."

"The game is afoot, John. You could write about it in your blog."

"I think_ not_. But we need to use the bedroom. Mycroft-"

"Fuck Mycroft."

"Rather not."

"Me neither."

Sherlock grinned evilly, practically dragging John along as he thumped toward the bedroom. "Come along. We need to gather empirical data on the efficacy of orgasms while one partner is partially immobilized by a hard cast."

"With pleasure, Sherlock, always."


End file.
